He had been shocked, stunned even, but he hadn’t been judgemental. After all, if anyone knew about the traits and foibles of humans, it was Blackie.

He had been worried about her, wanting to know who the father was and why he wouldn’t marry her, working himself into a terrible fury about it. He had even offered to marry her to keep her safe. She had seen something in his eyes, something about his appreciation of the woman she was now, and for the first time since she had left Fairley she had broken down in tears, touched by his loving and unselfish gesture. Shaking her head, with the tears spilling down her cheeks, she had refused his offer.

‘You have your plans, after all. You’re going to be that toff, that millionaire. You don’t need the responsibility of a family. I couldn’t do that to you, Blackie.’

He had accepted her refusal reluctantly, aware she was adamant, but Emma hadn’t been able to read the expression on his face.

Because she was constantly busy when she was not at Kallinski’s, Emma had bought herself a small second-hand watch from a pawnshop, with money taken from her savings. She looked at it now. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Blackie was coming to get her at Mrs Daniel’s house to take her to eat in a café and then go to the City Varieties again. She must put away her sewing and get ready. After all, he expected to see her looking like the Queen of England.

Blackie took her to the Blue Door, his favourite place to eat in Leeds. They were greeted with great enthusiasm by Gladys.

Now she said, as she seated them, ‘You look so lovely, madam, and I like yer purple blouse.’

‘Why thank you,’ Emma murmured, smiling at the waitress, her face radiant.

Blackie ordered two lemonades and, after the waitress had hurried off, he turned to Emma and said, ‘Ye do look beautiful tonight … and your eyes seem greener than ever.’

‘It’s the purple blouse. It’s a colour that always emphasizes green, and thank you for your compliment.’

Blackie chuckled. ‘Ye still look like the Queen with all them curls on top of your head. I don’t know how ye manage to do it, lass. I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints, ’tis a wonder to me. But then I’m just a man.’

Emma merely smiled and said, ‘I was a lady’s maid for Mrs Fairley, remember, Blackie. And I’m good with a needle.’ She looked at the menu. ‘It’s a treat to be here, thank you, Blackie.’ She had eaten in a café only once since coming to the city, never wanting to squander her carefully saved shillings. ‘What are you having?’

‘A steak pie, Emma. I’m a growing boy.’ He winked at her.